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That one cut...

Taken from google images

She
stared dreamily out of the window as she rocked her chair, watching the time
that became so stagnant in old age falling outside in the form of autumn
shedding its leaves. A half remembered song, she started to hum; a song that
tuned itself out of those pale, withered lips when they actually belonged
somewhere else- in a large rambling house with sloped roof and a haphazard garden
at the back. With a tall woman with her saree slipping from her head baring a high,
smooth forehead smiling with a large, red bindi sweeping the front yard
with a broom as she talked with a small, dainty woman at her side. With two brothers
fighting over a game of ball, two brothers arguing over the current developments
in medicine and a little girl staring unblinkingly at a wall when all that came
to a sudden end.

She didn’t
notice a small boy enter the room and call out “Tha’mma!” her mind was
far away, listening to the more urgent calls of her lost childhood and then
suddenly she said aloud “He must have pulled its tail”…

***

“Babli”,
a small whisper came from the other side of the wooden makeshift wall that
separated the two Chakrabarty families. It had erupted one fine morning, that
wall, after the death of Babli’s grandfather, putting a definite end to
whatever small interaction used to take place- hostile or otherwise. The last
breaths of the wizened old man had hardly dispersed into every corner of the
house and his two sons, egged on by their complaining waives decided to put an
end to it all and divided the squabbling household into two.

It
was then that the wall materialized, like the result of a poorly played magic
trick, though who the mysterious black-hatted magician was, Babli could not
fathom.

The
wall not only put an end to the endless quarrels between the two
sister-in-laws, it also put an end to the plays of their children. Babli was
the only child of her parents, the youngest grandchild of Late Dr. Somesh
Chakrabarty. Golu and Tutan were the sons of her Jethu, her father’s
elder brother, aged 15 and 8 respectively and it was Tutan Babli had spent her
entire childhood with as far as the vague remembrances of her childhood would
permit her.

So
the separation in their joint family of long baffled her more than it could vex
her 7 year old self. Initially it seemed like a new game, like the play they
had enacted once of Sita and Lakshman and their intriguing Lakshman
rekha; she remembered how Tutan had insisted her to sit in a circle drawn
by a broken mango branch under the scorching afternoon sun as he went out on
the search for his brother Shree Rama, that ‘search’ turned out to be
one for raw, green mangoes later.

But
even the half imagined, half exaggerated childhood perception of Babli could
decipher that things were more serious than Tutan drawing a circle around her
and ordering her not to step out of it, a ‘bum-bum-bhole sadhu baba’
might come and kidnap her away; the ferocity with which her mother slapped her
as she tried to sneak into the adjacent realm to taste the ‘taler boda’
Tutan had announced discreetly through the wall, put an end to her consoling
story of a well-enacted play coming to an end soon.

And
when, on spraining her ankle one day at school didn’t bring her Jethima
rushing to her aid with an aluminium mug filled with piping hot water, amurthanjan
and a wrinkled old cloth, she finally understood that things were never going
to be the same again. Jethima
with her bright red, orange and yellow sarees with bold patterns of huts and
trees was the best nurse Babli had ever known. Cuts, bruises, burns, sprains…
you name it and Jethima with her tall, reassuring frame, ample bosom, a
long, grave face and small, twinkling eyes had the remedy for it all. You just
had to lie whimpering on the bed till you heard the clamor of her nupur coming
your way and you breathe relieved and lie back; you would soon be in safe
hands.

Babli
often followed the raucous Jethima’s thick silver nupur made; not like the
dull, subtle clinks her mother’s ankles announced as she sat near the wall and
tracked her footsteps, her heart alighting expectantly as they came near their
side of the house, hoping to see a fair, bangled wrist hand out a cham-cham
Jethu used to bring from “Ma kali Mishtanna bhandar”, hoping to
catch a glimpse of the familiar folds of her starched saree in which she was
rescued more than once from her mother. But she never came, the promising sound
of her steps always painted a picture of illusion.

So
when Babli sprained her ankle, she longed for Jethima to materialize
with her ammunition, take her leg in her lap and massage her ankle with amurthanjan
as she said something soothing in her deep, rich voice. She remembered how she
twirled the cloth in opposite directions with both her hands till they formed a
tight roll, dip the middle portion into the hot water, squeeze it slightly and
touch it on the ankle with small, deft movements, ignoring the squeals and
attempts to wriggle away. But no Jethima came that day and Babli
realized that things were terribly wrong.

The
long hidden discussions Babli and Tutan had in the backyard sitting on either
side of the fence that constituted of the border outside didn’t solve the
problem at hand. At first they made a play out if it as well, passing solemn
messages of “Don’t worry, I will come to save you on Purnima night”
through cracks and crevices, sharing food stolen from the kitchen or supplied
by a kind, understanding cook, making weird codes and animals barks as a mode
of communication and hanging around with guilty faces at their house, as if
carrying the deathly secret of exchanging arms across the Indian border. But
soon it became a bore; the physical presence of a person cannot be replaced by
the pretense of contact over a distance, the energy and vibrancy of any event
becomes subtle and vague.

So
Babli wanted Tutan in person to play with, but the still lingering sting of her
mother’s slap made her wise enough not to suggest any such thing in her house.
It was their summer vacation and even the prospect of school to kill time was
robbed away; sitting at home doing nothing all day long almost drove Babli mad.

So
she wanted someone, a playmate like Tutan to be with, or something, a new
scheme, a new imagined game to keep her occupied. It was then, on one fine
morning as she sat with her chin cupped in her hands and her hair oiled and
neatly parted in two pony tails that she remembered Kiki, their parrot.

She
ran helter-skelter inside and made straight to the place adjoining the kitchen
where it was usually kept but the cage was gone. She doubled back without
pausing to catch her breath and ran to her mother who was separating the cotton
from the seeds outside while gossiping with a neighbor.

“Kothai
gelo? Joldi bolo kothai gelo!” Where is it? Tell me fast where it is; she
demanded urgently, her breath coming in gasps.

“Ki
kothai gelo?” What went where? Her mother asked as both the woman started
laughing on the child’s idiosyncrasy.

“Arre
Kiki. Amader Kiki. Kothai gelo?” Our Kiki. Where did it go?

In a
split second her mother’s expression changed from amused to grave as she said
grimly “Ota oder bari te” Its in their house.

“Kar
bari te?” whose house, Babli asked as she tried to keep the fear in her
heart at bay.

Her mother
nodded, confirming her worst fears and little Bablis’ shoulders slumped as if a
terrible weight had been thrust on them all of a sudden.

Then
started Babli’s tantrums- a series of whining, pleadings, fits of temper that
nearly drove her parents crazy.

She
wanted Kiki. It was her parrot and she wanted it in her house. Who was Tutan to
steal it away from her?

Babli’s
parents found themselves helpless because technically it wasn’t their
parrot. It was Tutan’s father who brought it in their house but this fact was
soon forgotten under the layers of family ties and the simple act of sharing.
But when the family dispute bared everything down to the ugly arrangement of
skeletal concrete that knew nothing except material possession, even a trivial
thing like a child’s broken toy claimed debate and hostility.

“But
it was Ma who fed Kiki everyday!” Babli screeched one day in sheer
frustration, tired of scrambling for arguments every day.

Babli’s
mother paused at that; it was true that her sister-in-law used to take no
interest in the parrot whatsoever; it was she who had looked after its daily
needs. Moreover, Tutan too had hardly ever shown any particular attachment with
the bird; it was when heavy downpour would force his boyish games inside he
would try and coax a few words out of the parrot. When the same argument was
put on a platter with hot pakoras and cha in front of Babli’s
father, he said only one thing.

“You
made me sever ties with them. I am not stepping into that household you made
alien to me ever again”

This
made his wife retire in her room with sobs and a general woe on how she was
blamed for everything that happened in the house and did he not see how cruel
his brother and his family were to them?

Babli
soon tired of all the drama; her mother’s sentiments and her father’s
indifference wasn’t taking her anywhere. So she decided to take the matter in
her own hands and confronted- if you call muted conversation across the fence
as confrontation- Tutan.

There
was much of debate, argument, fist-fight (all over the fence) which resulted in
Tutan becoming more determined about owning the parrot and ended with Babli in
hysterics. In the end, tired of the daily squabbles, Tutan came up with a
course of action.

“Instead of us deciding who wanted the Kiki,
we should let the Kiki decide whom it wanted”

Looking
at Babli’s confused expression, Tutan elaborated. “Let us both feed the parrot.
The person from whose hand Kiki will eat will get to keep it”

Babli
was highly suspicious of Tutan’s plan; what if he would employ some trick, what
if he fed the parrot so much beforehand that it wouldn’t eat anymore?

“Arre
then it wouldn’t eat from my hand either idiot!” Tutan argued.

And
so she relented, she didn’t have any other choice. It was when she was kneeled
before Kali ma’s photo, praying for the power that would enable her to feed
Kiki like a charm when Tutan’s whispered call urged her to hasten away through
her prayers.

“Babli”,
the whisper became more urgent and Babli rushed to press her ear against the
wall.

“Meow
meow bow wow” she muttered softly.

“Oh
you are here finally. I am leaving now. Count till hundred and then follow me.
On the count of three. One, two, THREE!”

She
heard his feet rustling away on the other side and she immediately turned her
face to the wall and started counting when she remembered that they weren’t
playing hide and seek- those games had ended for her long back…

She
gathered the skirts of her frock, clasped Kiki’s favorite biscuit in her palm
carefully and sneaked out of the house- the undergrowth behind their servant
quarters being their destination. Parrot-coveting games weren’t manageable over
a fence or a wall after all. She quickened her steps as she saw the back of
Tutan’s head; his short cropped summer cut a familiar sight peeping from behind
the bougainvillea bushes.

He
turned at the sound of her footsteps, his toothy grin flashed for just the
split of a second before he reminded himself the mood of their meeting and
turned somber. Babli didn’t smile either and the curious pang she felt in her
heart because of the restrain that was causing two cousins, two childhood
playmates from greeting each other with a simple thing like a smile was
something she couldn’t name, not until later.

They
sat facing each other with Kiki in the middle with faces more serious than they
had been when they had attempted to call the ghost of their old cook Khudiram
kaku by ‘planchet’. The prospect of owning a parrot was somehow more
serious than the prospect of confronting a ghost.

“I’ll
go first” Tutan said as he wordlessly broke a biscuit and put it to Kiki’s beak.
Babli watched breathlessly as she waited for Kiki to turn its head away but
nothing of that sort happened. It took the morsel in its beak promptly and
holding it with a claw, it munched it down, half the biscuit falling down
powdered into oblivion.

Tutan
leaned back with a smirk; feeling pleased with himself and motioned Babli to
play her part.

Babli
took a deep breath before she broke off a small bit from her biscuit and
tentatively reached it to the bird, cooing “Amar shona Kiki. Amar mishit
Kiki” as she did so.

What
happened next was lost in the speed of its occurrence and years later when she
tried to recall that incident, all she could remember was the sharp screech of
an anguished bird and a sudden flash of pain on her index finger which almost
simultaneously started bleeding.

Her
tears after that obscured her vision; Tutan and Kiki faded into background as
the gash on her finger came to the forefront. But more than that, it was the
betrayal of the living creature she believed to be her ‘pet’ that ached her
more. She came home in such a mess of blood and tears and pieces of a small,
broken heart flying everywhere that her mother bit back her curiosity and put
her to bed without raising any questions.

Kiki’s
betrayal Babli took on her heart and Tutan somehow seemed to make it all even
more personal for her for she never could bear the sight of him again. Every time
the whispered prospect of a dal-boda or cham-cham wafted in
through that wall, Babli would stare at the cut on her finger, steel herself
and walk away. It was that small cut hat became a scar- the only reminder she
had chosen to keep of a 7 years of cherished companionship, the only reminder
she chose to force upon herself, long after the cut had dissolved in her flesh…

***

“He
must have pulled its tail” she said aloud again, her eyes staring into space
with wonder. Her eyes automatically went to the wrinkled skin of her index
finger, which had, a long time back nestled a pinkish-red scar. She smoothed
her skin there, as if willing to see it again, almost seeing it again, that
reminder of silence she bore all her life.

She
felt that strange pang in her heart again, not unlike the one she had felt on
seeing her cousin’s face bereft from its smile and her own unsmiling face
mirrored in his eyes. It was then that she could name that emotion. It was
sadness, that deep, limitless thing that weighs upon every living, feeling cell
of our body and pulls it down with sheer force, leaving nothing but a void
inside. It was sadness that she had felt on seeing the familiar Tutan looking
more unfamiliar than ever in her life; it was sadness that she now felt, on
seeing herself search for the scar that didn’t even exist anymore but had in
irreversible ways, scarred that child’s heart forever.

They
had shifted form that house two years later and Babli no longer had to look at
her finger to remind herself; Tutan, Kiki’s betrayal, Jethima's bright
sarees, Jethu’s cham-chams were all soon stacked with fine layers of
time’s dust on the shelf of her memories.

But
she would sometimes think of what happened to her cousin, whom he married,
where he was now, how old his children were… she sometimes would screw up her
face trying to remember what he had looked like when she had known him. But she
could never go beyond hat toothy smile, those mud-streaked dirty nails and that
closely cropped curly hair- it was as if she had never known anything beyond
the nick-name of ‘Tutan’; she couldn’t even remember his real name…

Now
as she thought about it, the wall in the middle of their house hadn’t
materialized out of thin air like magic. It had grown- grown like a plant grows-
first hidden and underneath, frail and unassuming, then bolder, stronger as it
pushes itself from the soil till it expands and fills your vision, blocking its
origin from your eyes. The wall had grown, invisibly at first to a point that
it seemed as if it were always there and hence it had to take a more definite
form, a more concrete form.

The
wall had grown just like she let the scar grown on her finger from a simple
cut; she had gashed it time and again till it was ingrained in her, became a
part of her…

She
was still rubbing her finger when her grandson’s voice broke her out of her
reverie.

“Tha’mma!”
he shouted. “You are talking to yourself again and not listening to me!”

“No,
my dear” she said apologetically and tried pulling him close to her. But he
danced away from her reach, too excited to contain himself.

“Guess
what?” he asked, his eyes shining.

“What?”
she played along to humor him.

“Baba
agreed to get a pet for me!” he squealed and clapped his hands, jumping up and
down.

But
cold shutters gripped her heart as she tightened the hold on her index finger.
“Not… not a parrot I hope?”

“Pooh!
PARROT?” he wrinkled his nose as if she had spoken of some nasty, smelly
insect. “That is for girls. I will get a dog or a rabbit!”

She
didn’t realize she had been holding her breath till she released it on hearing
his words, her hands relaxing from their grip.

“Ok
ok I have to go now. Jachchi” he said and turned.

“Aashchi”
she corrected automatically, her feet starting to rock her chair again.

“Haan
haan that only. Aashchi” he shouted and ran out of the room, waving
his hand.

She
watched his tiny legs running and in her mind’s eyes visualized a small girl
running- Babli as she ran taking the heavy shelf of some scarred memories away
from her...

WOW. There's not another word I know other than that to describe this. I'm actually speechless for the first time--this never happens to me. Babli's despair and confusion over what happened, her inability to be resilient but slowly accepting things as they are, really moved me. I completely forgot where I was for a while. :')

I wanted to try something new this time and this haunted me till i was forced to get down to it :D Thanks a million re. I means a lot to me, your approval on this one :P :DAnd i AM half bong, even i say that these days. ;)

Nah. i guess i am just heavily inspired by some bong people :DAnd old bong movies are on my list on things-to-do this year :PI am so glad you liked it! i got out of my comfort zone writing this, so every bit of feedback is valued :)Thanks for the read :)

Kudos to you for this work!!A plethora of BABLI & TUTAN continue to be at loggerheads owing to the mindless skirmishes between their parents.Congrats for aptly unveiling this harsh reality of life!!.Now I'm going to purchase a parrot from the market.Till then,keep the pot boiling.

Small incidents do scar us forever isnt it? I am glad you think i could covney the reality through my words!Good luck with the parrot. I can suggest you names if you want. for most of my bookmarks take me to baby names and pet names :PThanks for the visit Ravi and for the comment as well!

Simply excellent...your work reminds me of some of the best short story writers of bengal.YOU HAVE HUGE POTENTIAL.Don't let it go to waste.You are moving in the "write" direction.Onek din por etoo bhalo short story porlamTHANK YOU!